


The Opportune Moment

by jesuislepoisson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-13
Updated: 2012-08-13
Packaged: 2017-11-12 01:16:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/485017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesuislepoisson/pseuds/jesuislepoisson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade asks Mycroft a simple question post-Reichenbach. Mycroft's answer is not so simple. One shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Opportune Moment

**Author's Note:**

> This fic employs the idea that Mycroft is hiding Sherlock for the time being, because reasons. A short fic inspired by the gifset found here: porn-morehonestthan-religion.tumblr.com/post/29256291763

“Are you okay?”

Three words. Four syllables. A hint of rising intonation at the end to indicate a question. It wasn’t fair that Lestrade could pack so much meaning into so little. What was Mycroft to say? He wasn’t okay because he was keeping his own brother secret, having to watch the world go on without Holmes the younger, believing him to have been a fraud the whole time, while simultaneously watching Lestrade’s career fall apart around him? Was he supposed to say he wasn’t okay because he could fix everything in a heartbeat for Lestrade with just a few simple words, and yet he was bound to secrecy? All Lestrade knew was that Mycroft was grieving for his brother, and he had the decency to ask if Mycroft was okay. 

None of this was _okay._ He doubted it ever would be, no matter what Sherlock’s grand plan was. The world knew Sherlock as a fake genius, real suicide – and he was one of a pair that knew it was the other way round. Mycroft was far from an emotional man, but he felt like he could slap the whole world silly and scream in their faces, “Don’t you get it? You’ve got it all wrong!” It was torture, watching people go about their days comforted by the knowledge that Sherlock Holmes was a fraud. He wanted to scream it from the rooftops, put it in all the papers, wear a bloody T-shirt with “SHERLOCK IS REAL” printed on it, but Sherlock told him wait, wait, _wait._ It was all about the opportune moment. 

And he sat there, in a café in London with the only other man he cared about sitting right in front of him, asking him a simple question that had a not very simple answer. The noise and bustle of the café was almost painful, as was the bright and shining city streets outside. Didn’t anyone know what was happening? Shouldn’t the world have paused for even a moment to mourn the loss of one of its greatest minds? Couldn’t any of them see through the lies, pull aside the veil, know that it was all fabrication? Why were they all so bloody _stupid?_

The worst of it was the way Lestrade looked at him. The purse of his lips, the set of his jaw, the curve of his eyebrows. All of it spoke of sympathy, but there was a hauntedness to his face. The man’s career was in shambles, for heaven’s sake; he had every right to want nothing to do with any of this nonsense. And yet here he was, expressing concern for Mycroft Holmes, the beautiful git. And Mycroft knew he could make it all better, put all the pieces of Humpty Dumpty back where they belonged – he could almost feel his tongue straining against his teeth, desperate to say those words, even in a whisper, _Sherlock is alive, alive, alive._

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t do it and still be able to look himself in the mirror later. 

Mycroft was no stranger to keeping secrets. It was his job to keep secrets. And yet, as he searched Lestrade’s eyes, he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t outright lie. Lestrade would see right through him anyway. He always did, bless him. 

Mycroft lowered his head to his hands, folded together and propped up by elbows on the table. He took a deep breath, then lifted his head to look Lestrade in the eyes. “No,” he said, aloud, but the crinkles in his forehead and the way he held the breath for a second longer than necessary said _but please don’t ask._

Lestrade understood, giving a tiny nod, and Mycroft fell a little bit more in love with the damned man. He reached across the table and took Mycroft’s hand, giving it a small, covert squeeze before letting go – they were in public, after all. 

“Me neither,” he said. 

Mycroft looked down to his feet, avoiding Lestrade’s eyes. Lestrade flagged down the waiter and paid for both of them. One day, he’d bring him back here, and when Lestrade asked that cursed question again, Mycroft would finally be able to stop lying to him. 

But for now, at least he wasn’t completely alone.


End file.
